


Neon Hysteria

by januarywren



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Birds of Prey - freeform, Blackmail, Creepy Roman Sionis, DDLG, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Roman Sionis, Drugged Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Forced Relationship, Harleen Quinzel Backstory, Harleen Quinzel Needs a Hug, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Master/Pet, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Narcissism, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Harleen Quinzel, Past Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Possessive Behavior, Smut, Spanking, Sub Harleen Quinzel, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22668517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarywren/pseuds/januarywren
Summary: “Harleen,” Roman warned, resting his fingers on the curve of her neck. He watched her with dark, hooded eyes as if he knew she was considering spitting the pill back in his face. “Swallow it all.”“But Rome-eee,” she whined in the falsetto that Mister J had loved and knew that Roman hated. She liked to worm her way beneath his skin until he snapped, frequently bending her over his knee and spanking her until she screamed, and then locked her in the closet, as if he wouldn’t come back for her.The first time she’d cried, thick, rivets of tears that stung as they rolled down her cheeks. The second time, she hadn’t cried at all, until he’d asked if she’d learned her lesson, and opened the closet door. Then she’d thrown herself into his arms, and sobbed into his silk dress shirt that she was sorry - she was his -And he'd eaten it up, the same as Mister J had.BoP AU | Roman adopts the stray that the Joker threw away.
Relationships: Black Mask/Harley Quinn, Harleen Quinzel/Roman Sionis, Harley Quinn/Roman Sionis, Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 142
Kudos: 183
Collections: Harley Quinn





	1. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw Birds of Prey yesterday - 
> 
> And said goodbye to writer's block. 😌❤

Harley _hated_ waking up early.

She’d always slept until well past noon, dressed in her pink onesie, and cuddled against Bruce (the hyena - _not_ the hunky Bruce Wayne) until the package of stale cheese puffs from the counter called her. Or the bowl of cereal from the couch. Or the smell of Chinese food came wafting into her apartment from the restaurant below -

She was a free bitch after her split with the Joker, doing whatever she wanted, albeit mainly drinking and fleeing from people who wanted to kill her. Harley was a nice person, promise.

She’d just - well - been a little _too_ good at being Mister J’s glorified sidekick. That was why she was up in the morning and fucking the only one who could protect her. (Besides Batman, and she hadn’t known how to contact him. Don a leather outfit with a bat mask, and wait in a seedy alleyway for him to appear?).

It was different with Roman.

Everything was.

He liked to wake her up in the morning, pressing his fingers into her ribcage until she screamed, and rolled out of bed. Classical music filtered through his penthouse, instead of the screamo from one of her neighbors, and toasted bagels with lox waited on the dining room table, instead of a box of skittles and a bottle of vodka on her nightstand.

Wearing one of his dress shirts, Harley sat Indian style on the couch, with her owner beside her. (Yeah, she was Roman’s - _that_ Roman’s - pet now; the choker with a J replaced with a trail of hickeys down her throat).

“Small sips,” Roman told her, watching as she brought the cup to her lips.

She gulped the water down, loudly smacking her lips while rolling the round pill beneath her tongue. _Amateur_ , she thought, he couldn’t even roofie her properly.

Harley hated Roman Sionis, more than she’d ever hated Mister J. He thought he could keep her on a diamond-encrusted leash, tugging on it when he wanted her to heel - fucker had to drug her to keep her complacent as if he didn’t hear voices too.

**Obsessive** \- **Narcissistic** \- **Sociopath** -

The only motherfucker who could keep her safe, after her split with Mister J. (People were wrong who thought Harley lied to herself, the way she lied to the world. She always told herself the truth.)

“Harleen,” Roman warned, resting his fingers on the curve of her neck. He watched her with dark, hooded eyes as if he knew she was considering spitting the pill back in his face. “Swallow it all.”

“But Rome-eee,” she whined in the falsetto that Mister J had loved and knew that Roman hated. She liked to worm her way beneath his skin until he snapped, frequently bending her over his knee and spanking her until she screamed, and then locked her in the closet, as if he wouldn’t come back for her. 

The first time she’d cried, thick, rivets of tears that stung as they rolled down her cheeks. The second time, she hadn’t cried at all, until he’d asked if she’d learned her lesson, and opened the closet door. Then she’d thrown herself into his arms, and sobbed into his silk dress shirt that she was sorry - she was his -

He hadn’t seen her smile as he threw his ruined shirt away, instead of throwing her. “ _You’re mine, Harleen_ ,” he’d cooed to her later, when he had his head between her legs, and drew his name across her cunt with his tongue. “ _You’ll die before you get away from me, kitten_.”

(Roman could be _such_ a drama queen, couldn’t he?)

She felt a flutter inside her chest anyway, as scummy of a romantic heroine as she would have made. She knew, even without Canary telling her to her face, that she wasn’t an inspiration to anyone.

Except, maybe, the little pickpocket who watched her play roller derby and cheered when she broke someone’s nose, blood gushing on to the rink. Roman allowed her to still play after she'd slipped off her leash three times in a row to go play.

“Rome-ee,” he imitated, his lip curling upward, “isn’t in the mood.”

He carded his fingers through her hair, his nails scratching her scalp in a way that made her purr.

She pushed the Quaalude back on to her tongue and wrinkled her nose as it went down. It left a bitter stain behind on her tongue, and she smirked at the thought of asking for a lollipop. There was only one treat that he had, and he reveled in teasing her with it.

“What am I going to do with you, hm?” Roman clicked his tongue, guiding her back against the suede couch cushions. He'd fucked her on it once before when she'd been naked and reveling in the feel of it; the cushions as soft as the angora cat he'd gotten her (her hyena, Bruce, had pouted for weeks after Lillian came until he'd found what an excellent chew toy she made). “Are you going to be a good girl for me, Harley?”

She nodded, feeling her senses dulling.

Quaaludes had the nicest side effects, she thought, with slick dripping from her. It would stain the couch beneath her, and Roman would backhand her for it, though he’d lick it up all the same. Pervert, he was a filthy pervert -

Her eyes rolled upward as heat flickered inside her. “Pet me,” she keened, and Roman leered above her.

“You want me to fuck you, kitten? Will you purr for me?”

He didn’t like it when she hissed and spit, or sank her pretty canines into him -

He drugged her for his safety, not hers.

She giggled at the thought, batting her eyelashes. “Y-Yes R-Rome-eee,” her tongue darted out, licking her bottom lip. She liked the taste of her cherry chapstick, just like the black cherry ice cream she ate straight from the tub, with her fingers when Roman wasn’t home. “Pinky promise.”

His hand slipped between her thighs, stroking her clit through her lacy panties. They were obnoxiously expensive; scraps of lace with a frilly little bow, and he’d ordered her dozens of them. She was his kitten, and he played dress-up with her as if she was the sweetest ingenue.

She rutted against his hand, pressing her thighs about his wrist. “No take backs, daddy,” she mumbled, her tongue lolling between her lips. She never said please, after Mister J had taught her to take what she wanted -

_Take it, take it, take it -_

She blinked, peeping up at the man above her.

“Daddy?” she asked, her tone hesitating. She was supposed to call him something, he’d told her, so she’d be his good, little girl-

‘ _Daddies don’t leave good girls, Harley_ ,’ someone had told her.

Her cheeks flushed bright at the thought, and she wanted to scowl. Her real dad had left her, and she’d found him again and again until he dumped her off at the _horrid_ nunnery. 

She’d burned down her family home before she’d gone off to college and pretended, she could hear her dad screaming inside. (Only he hadn’t - she’d seen him later at the corner bar where he’d been slumped over the bar, with a cigarette left smoking between his fingers).

She shook her head, the thoughts rattling inside her head. It was her daddy above her, not her dad -

“Good, good,” Harley repeated, her voice slurring as she kept her eyes open. “Good g-girl.”

He wouldn't leave her then if she got it right. He _wouldn’t_.

“I’m not your daddy, kitten.”

He kissed the tip of her nose while canting his hips against hers. He made her feel small, the way his body covered hers, and kept her safe from the outside world. His hair wasn’t green - she hated green, neon and filthy -

He was handsome, in a muted sort of way.

“The boy next d-door,” she hummed, slipping her arms around his shoulders. Her first kiss had been all teeth and a tongue shoved down her throat, by a neighborhood boy. He’d wanted her to go down on him too but had run away when he saw she was wearing braces.

_Pussy_.

Roman chuckled, feeling her relax against him.

His kitten was so sweet when she sheathed her claws and kept her canines in her fucking mouth. He had a scar on his neck from where she'd bitten him as if she wanted the whole fucking world to know that she was with him.

And why wouldn’t she, when he gave his kitten the prettiest cage?

All of Gotham saw that he’d adopted the Joker’s wandering stray, one that was covered in fleas and filthy fucking worms. He’d groomed her and taught her to purr when he petted her, collaring her in a way that the Joker never could.

“I’m Roman Sionis, baby,” he murmured, drawing kisses across her jaw. She’d never had that before, gentleness something she hardly recognized anymore. “Your everything.”

She purred, feeling his throbbing erection against her stomach. “Happy to see me,” Harley said, his fingers stroking her wet slit. She liked the way he touched her as if she was someone he lied - “Happy,” she repeated, tilting her head back. Everything was muted and nice -

‘ _Happy, happy, happy_ -‘

But the thought tingled still, the one that she hated waking up in the mornings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Puuko and Soup, thank you! 🦝🖤


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was my birthday yesterday, and I saw Birds of Prey again (on Sunday!). 
> 
> Seeing Harley Quinn and Black Mask in IMAX made me inspired... 
> 
> So inspired, I started writing during the movie, lmao. 🙊🖤 Thank you for all the 21st birthday wishes, and the wonderful comments. You all are more than I deserve, and it makes me so happy to hear from you! ❤

Roman _never_ wore gloves when he touched her.

She supposed she should have appreciated that.

His hands never touched filthy things, a door handle, sopping wet dishes, or steering wheels. He had OCD to a tee, something that didn’t take an exemplary psychiatrist to diagnose. He had countless pairs of gloves, and Harley put her feet into all of them when he wasn’t looking and wore them like socks around the penthouse. It made Harley laugh to see him wear them, knowing that he had no idea what she’d done. 

Though, she almost wished he _would_ wear his gloves when he touched her. He reveled in making her wet, often licking her juices from his fingers before thrusting them back inside her and cooed his praises in her ear. “ _Good, kitten_ ,” Roman mused, “ _You’re so obedient for me, love_.”

If he did wear gloves, he let her pull them from his hands with her teeth, before discarding them on the floor. He only wore each pair once, the same as his toes or his dress shoes. There was an ever stream of packages that came to the penthouse door, a fact that made Harley squeal with unadulterated greed. There was always something for her, a pretty trinket, a designer handbag, or lacy underwear. The two things that were never a surprise were a pair of gloves for Roman, and a package of the pills he slipped to her.

Harley tapped her cheek, her tongue swiping her bottom lip. Sometimes, she wondered if he left his gloves on when he wanked. (Maybe?)

It wasn’t as if she watched him while he played with himself, something he wasn’t reluctant to do in the open. He’d recline on the velvet chaise while she watched cartoons next to him, never turning her head. He was easy to tune out when she watched colors splash across the screen, and dug her spoon into the sugary, frosted loops that he abhorred her eating.

“ _Really pet_ ,” Roman said with a little sigh that meant he thought it absurd she was disobeying him, “ _I want you alive and fuckable, not a corpse with sugar infested veins.”_

She’d stuck her tongue out at him when he wasn’t looking, though she didn’t miss the twitch in his jaw. He was too easy to rile, too easy to enrage, and her body showed the result of her spirit. There were hickeys between her thighs and cum on her lacy thongs, while yellowed bruises covered her throat and her ribs. Roman fucked her while whispering poetry in her ear, the same as he would grab her by the hair and whip her with his belt.

He wanted to break her, so he could remake her.

And fuck her if she let that happen, Harley thought, her teeth worrying at her lip. It didn't take looking in the mirror to know the color of her hair or the tattoos that covered her. She had given herself to another man already, something that she would _never_ do again. Not for Batman, or Deadshot, or anyone else who came into her life, including Roman Sionis.

She wasn't - well - _into_ Roman, like she was with Mister J.

He was her everything, something that made her cringe to confess. It didn't take much for her to know that his attachment to the Joker was rooted in her daddy issues and the lack of having a mother in her life. The nuns couldn’t spank the issues out of her, and neither could anyone else. (Just ask Deadshot, who’d let her call him daddy while he spanked her until her bottom was a perfect rosy hue. Harley giggled, knowing it was his phone's background still).

During her _professional_ moments, (when her hair was newly tied into pigtails and dripping with dye, and she nibbled on her lip) she would flip through Mister J's journals and study them like they were cheat sheets to understanding him. And they were if you believed her old professors, and the psych textbooks they recited from. 

She had wanted to be the best for the Joker, the only one who understood him.

The only one who loved him.

Harley scowled at the sneaky thought, one that used the word she'd specifically banned herself from using. _Bad Harley_ , she scolded herself, _bad, bad, bad_!

She stretched her legs, the kitchen tile cold against her bare skin. Beside her was a carton filled with mint chocolate chip ice cream, the spoon she'd used stuck into it. Bruce was happy enough to lap at the lid where goops of ice cream were before he flopped on his side and huffed. She thumbed ice cream from his nose, and laughed - between the two of them, she wasn’t sure who enjoyed sugary treats more. 

Nor did Bruce like Roman, often scampering into his kennel or into her bedroom when the man came around. He'd held still enough when Roman had replaced his collar with one made from gold but whined loudly throughout until she'd tugged on his tail for him to stop.

If she were honest (something she tried to be, if only to _herself_ ) Harley liked that Bruce was her pet. She'd gotten him by herself, and was the center of his world, something she couldn't say about anything else that she had. Plus, Bruce was so soft and cuddly that she didn't ever sleep alone before Roman had blackmailed her into staying with him.

“ _I own this town, Harleen_ ,” Roman had whispered, curving his fingers around her neck. His prick had prodded against her back too, betraying his excitement. “ _Do you want to be safe? Then stay with me, baby. Let me take care of you_.” 

Harley had accepted his offer, the same as anyone else in her position would have. (All of Gotham’s scum out for her? Yikes.) She thought Black Canary would have understood too, only the woman hadn’t.

“ _You have no idea what you’re doing, Quinn_ ,” Canary had scowled. “ _You could make a difference if you gave a fuck about anyone but yourself_.”

"I'm not the same Harley, ya know?" Harley remarked, scratching Bruce behind the ear. His nametag hung from his collar, one engraved, ‘ _Baby Bruce_ ’. "No more puddin’, no more Harley. Well, _that_ Harley," she amended, her brow furrowing. 

She’d laughed in Roman’s face when he’d pondered collaring her, the same as the Joker had done. She wasn’t going to wear his collar, nor anyone else’s, even if he was Batman himself. “ _But Harleen_ ,” Roman had smiled, all pearly white teeth and cool gaze. “ _Don’t you want the world to know you belong to me?_ ”

“ _Course’ Rome-iee_ ,” she’d replied, before straddling him the way that he liked. He’d made her cum from riding on his fingers, and she’d buried her face into his neck, kissing and nipping at his skin. He never stopped her from leaving hickeys behind, the same as he covered her in them.

Only, she’d still woken up screaming, while one of his club members tattooed _Roman’s Kitten_ just below her collarbone. Roman had cradled her cheeks and dusted kisses across her skin as if he were her lover. " _Shh, shh_ ,” he’d murmured, tracing the seam of her lips with his tongue. “ _You’re alright, pet. I wanted to give you something you that no one could take from you_.”

Or that she could take off. 

Sweet bubblegum melted on her tongue as she blew a big bubble, before popping it loudly.

She'd done that around Roman before, seven times before he'd backhanded her so hard, she'd felt her _stuff_ rattle around in her head.

You know, _stuff_ , like memories of the first caterpillar she'd found, and a random bit of poetry she'd jotted down in high school. Her dad's middle name, and the way he’d laughed when she banged on the front door, after the first time he abandoned her.

The Joker had listened to it for seventeen times before making her swallow her gum and suck on his thumb instead, the sweet daddy that he could be. He'd thrown her out, just like her real daddy did too.

Lucky for her, Bruce didn't mind at all. Sometimes he even snickered when she blew a giant bubble, his ears twitching back when she popped it. When she was on her own again, she wanted to get another hyena, one that had eyes as pretty as emeralds and a great big maw.

"Maybe we'll go to the docks today, Brucey baby," Harley suggested, "You can't be a total terror though," she rolled her eyes, remembering the last time they'd gone.

Someone had stepped on Bruce's tail, and when he'd snapped at them in response, and their child started wailing -

Throwing the woman's lambskin bag into the ocean before stuffing her face full of hot dogs (ones that were slathered in toppings and dripping with grease) might not have been the right thing to do.

Scratch that - it was the right thing to do, just not the good thing to do.

Harley had taken off with Bruce before any fuddy-duddies had shown up - like the cops, or animal control - but she'd made Bruce promise to be a good boy after that.

Bruce whined, resting his head in her lap.

"He won't know," Harley said, stroking his furry cheek. "Pinky promise."

Roman never liked her to leave while he was out as if she were a disobedient pet, that would run away from home. It wasn’t like she didn’t know her way back, Harley thought, rolling her eyes. She remembered every place she could stay, the same as she knew every place, she or the Joker had stashed things.

She'd tried to spend time at his club, during Canary's sets but at the moment, but they were on the outs still.

" _Living up to your name, Harlequin_?" Canary snarked, the last time she saw her. Harley had dolled up to the nines too, the same as the night she broke Roman’s driver’s legs, and she hadn’t even vomited from doing shots. Lots and lots of shots.

It hadn’t mattered to Canary though, and Harley's stomach had twisted at her question, in a way that she wanted to forget. Bruce keened as if he felt the change in her mood.

"Come on Brucey," Harley pushed herself up from the kitchen floor and made her way to the front door. "We're going to enjoy ourselves," no matter _what_ Roman thought about it.

She wasn't afraid of him.

She wasn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Puuko and Soup, thank you! 🦝🖤


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it too late to change Roman's nickname for Harley? 
> 
> Instead of his kitten, he could call her his raccoon, lmaoo 🙊❤
> 
> Someone who read an earlier version of chapter three said Roman's nickname doesn't fit Harley, at all. I immediately thought of a raccoon - they're so, so cute yet can be utterly vicious too. 
> 
> (Though they're adorable, and make me happy when I watch videos of them or see them in our yard at night. Enjoy this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHwmCwoqdKA&t=) 
> 
> Thank you for all the wonderful comments, and the kudos/bookmarks for Neon Hysteria. ❤ I've always wanted to try my hand at writing Harley/Joker, so writing Harley/Roman, and feeling even slightly confident in my work is a surprise. Your comments are so encouraging and lovely to read. ❤❤

“Imagine my surprise,” Roman drawled, “when a little bird called to let me know that my kitten had run away.”

The car behind them held Bruce and the guests that Roman had been entertaining (well - their bodies, anyway). It was terribly rude to leave them by themselves, wasn't it? Yet Harleen wasn't fit for company after Roman had ordered his guards to make a detour to the park, she was _playing_ in.

He had been faster than she was, as he grabbed hold of her wrist with one hand, and Bruce’s collar with the other. “ _Come along, dear_ ,” Roman had hissed, and she had started needling him with apologies.

“ _I know I shouldn’t have left, Romiee - but I was awfully bored and Brucey was too -_ “

He had gripped her wrist hard enough for the bone to creak, and Harleen had flinched at the feeling. “ _I’m really sorry, Roman_ \- _Y-You can let go now_ -“

Only when he hadn’t let go, she had tried to tug her wrist from his grip, resulting in him throwing Bruce’s leash to his driver, and carrying Harleen over his shoulder. She had started kicking and screaming like a brat, before he had tossed her into the car, and forced her to lay across his lap. "To a filthy park on main street, my kitten ran to play."

His hand balled into a fist, cracks surfacing across the fine leather. It’d been a disgraceful sight, seeing her amidst the rabble, on a filthy park bench.

“With her rabid dog beside her, slobbering, and looking for a passing stray to fuck.”

He felt Harley tense in his lap, and his hand pressed against her nape. She would hiss and spit if she faced him, and he didn’t particularly feel like marring her pretty face again. The last time he’d hit her, it’d taken weeks for the bruises to yellow, before fading completely.

He didn’t have her wear the makeup that the Clown Prince had. Roman liked to see the flush of her cheeks when he fingered her beneath the table, or the hooded look she gave him after kissing her senseless. She never could hide her reactions; emotions flitting across her face the same as any child.

“Sound familiar, Rome-iee?” she asked, adopting the falsetto he hated.

He wanted all of her, including the parts that she had tucked into her heart, and hidden from the world. It was the same attitude that Roman felt toward Gotham, as he crawled out from the shadow of his father, and rose to a prominent standing in the city. He was more than his last name, oftentimes things displayed under 'Roman' only.

He had an unquenchable thirst to cradle the city in his hand, and everything that came with it.

Penguin, the Joker, even Bane with his sycophants or Amanda Walker with the government behind her couldn’t keep Harleen as safe as he did. Only, his kitten had to learn to behave with her owner - a lesson that she was going to learn today.

“ _Quiet_.”

His other hand slid down her back, to the hem of her jeans, where he tugged them down. He admired the curve of her ass and the silky thong that she wore. It was one that he had given her, the same as the jeans that she wore, and the woolen sweater she'd stolen from him. (A sinful theft he found he hadn't minded when he saw her in it.) 

Everything that she had, aside from the mangy mutt that clung to her side, was from him.

"Will you thank me for this?" Roman mused, keeping one hand on her nape still. "I think you should, kitten." He leaned down his head near hers. The smell of bubblegum and vanilla clung to her, a sickly-sweet combination. "You've been a troublesome kitten when all I want to do is take care of you."

For someone who was supposedly so smart, Harleen didn’t know how to use her little mind, at all. It was a surprise, really, for a girl who had scored straight A's during university and had received a prominent internship at Gotham Asylum.

“Things could be so easy for you,” he cooed lowly, “if only you would be a good girl for me.”

“You still think she’s here,” Harley replied, annoyance thick in her tone, “Harleen is _dead_ , Rome-iee, and she’s not coming back.”

She had told him that once before when she sat on the corner of his bed and rocked back and forth. He found a pile of pills dumped in the sink, alongside a bottle of neon pink nail polish laying on its side. “ _I can’t be who you want,”_ she'd told him when he’d grasped her by the chin, and demanded to know what she was doing - “ _I’m a harlequin, not your kitten_. _Harleen is gone and dead, Ro-Ro-man.”_

It was the first time that Roman had realized he wanted her to stay by his side.

He’d fed her one of his pills by hand, before holding her in his arms for hours, until she’d fallen asleep in his hold.

“Should I thank the Joker for that?” Roman teased, chuckling as he felt Harleen wriggle in his lap. It was terribly easy to keep her in place, her wiry strength nothing beneath his firm hands. “You should thank me for the punishment I’m going to give you, _Harley_.”

“I’m not afraid of you -“

His hand came down on her ass, dull spikes on his gloves driving into her skin.

She jumped - but he held her there while clicking his tongue. “Ah, ah,” Roman warned. “You won’t like what happens if you make me angry, kitten.”

“In fact,” His hand came down again, a loud _crack_ filling the air. It made Harleen jump again, a small moan slipping from her lips. It seemed that her body wanted to disobey him, the same as she longed to, inside. “I think you should thank me for collecting you, little one, the world is quite dangerous out there.”

Harley whimpered, his gloved hand running across her skin. “Count for me, love,” Roman murmured, his voice like the silk scarves he wound about her wrists, before lowering his head between her legs. She would whimper and moan, thrashing about him while he delved between her folds. He’d kiss her clit when she came, his tongue darting out to toy with her pearl, despite her shrill cries that she couldn’t take anymore.

She could - she would, as he delved inside her again, and lapped up all the slick that dripped out of her. He didn't feel disgusted when he was with her, a curious, thrilling emotion that he'd felt when going down on others. It was the filthiest part of them, something that made Roman long to tear them apart with his teeth as if he could erase the sinful stain, they’d left on him. Only he couldn’t, and he only drove them away.

But his kitten was different, her cream sweet, and fresh on his tongue. He would drive her to orgasm, again and again, and delight in the droplets on his tongue. And when he was - finally - done, he would kiss her thatch of curls, and the rounded curves of her thighs, while pretending they were her cheeks and her pretty pink lips. Then he would fuck her, thrilled at the slick heat between her legs, and the way that she cried beneath him; ecstasy overtaking her, until it was painful.

A nicer man, a caring man, wouldn’t have done it to her. 

But Roman knew that she could take it.

He was firm with her as he spanked her, leaving no room between them for her to find relief. He wanted every fleeting note of pleasure, and pain that she felt to come from him as if they shared the same skin.

It was a possessiveness he had shown other lovers, something that had chased them all away.

Except her, his ferocious, foolish kitten.

“F-Fuck -“ Harley grunted, as he struck her again.

She was made to lay in his lap as if she were an offering for him. It was an enchanting sight, one that he would be happy to have immortalized in a painting, one that would hang across his bed. Or, perhaps, across from his desk where he could view it as he worked. Harleen wasn’t at the point yet, where she would kneel at his feet, and wait for his attention, and any touch he might give her.

Far from it.

Roman found himself hardening as he spanked her, her toned flesh reddening beneath his touch. He didn’t want to hold back on her, the naughty kitten who had slipped her chain too many times.

“I had a nanny once,” Roman explained, making a rare reference to his childhood. “A stern German frau with a mole on her chin, and a continual sausage tucked into her pocket.”

Fuck, he had hated her, the undertone of spices that surrounded her one he remembered still. “She believed, like my father, that pain was a wonderful, _instructional_ tool.” Roman chuckled, feeling dampness on his pant leg. He knew the spankings would make his kitten wet. “Would you learn better this way, Harley?”

“You already know the answer, Rome-iee,” she said, peeking back over her shoulder to glare at him. He would have laughed at the sight, had he not felt her grinding against him. “This is a game that _you_ decided to play.”

As if she didn’t adore it.

“Still so defiant,” Roman murmured, “so naughty, kitten.”

He hit her harder then, enough to make her keen as if she truly were his sweet kitten.

Violence was what Harley understood the most, and she held an innate desire for it. It was the same trait that Roman recognized in himself, remembering his euphoria when he had strangled his nanny’s cat.

It was a loathsome, filthy thing with a pushed-in nose and an ever-swishing tail. It had knocked over an antique vase, one that his mother had loved - and his nanny had blamed Roman for its destruction, instead of her cat.

He hoped, that perhaps, _his_ kitten would be smarter than that.

Her cheeks glistened a gorgeous shade of red as he stopped to massage them, and he listened intently, hearing Harleen hiss. “It stings, doesn’t it, baby?” Roman purred. “Roman wore his special gloves just for you.”

His hand moved between her legs, one gloved finger tracing her cunt. Truthfully Roman _had_ missed her, his meeting with one of Mr. Freeze’s delegates taking him away from Gotham. He’d asked Canary to keep an eye on her, knowing that his loyal bird would.

He withdrew his hand and tasted the slick covering his glove, delighting at her musky taste on his tongue.

_Lovely_.

She inhaled, and he smiled.

“Count for me,” he repeated, “and I’ll make you cum after, as much as you’d like.”

“Promise?” she asked, her voice breathy, and soft. He knew that she would turn feral if he let her, her pleasure only a momentary distraction from how she wanted to tear out his throat.

He'd made the mistake once before, kissing her in the bed, when she was sleepy and curled against him. It had been a clash of teeth and tongue before Harleen had nipped at his lips, hard enough to make them bleed. "Fuck you," she'd snarled, in the same way, that Victor had whispered he loved him.

“Mhm,” he nodded. “I always keep my promises, kitten.”

At her tentative agreement, he brought his hand down on her ass again. “O-One -“

Her submission was almost as pretty as she was, though he wouldn’t trust her outside the car for a moment. Harleen was excellent at running, and Roman knew that she had a multitude of hiding places. His stomach rolled at the thought of her scattering like a rat and hiding in the filthy tunnels beneath his feet.

No -

His kitten had a place beside him, not by someone else.

“T-two -“

She wiggled her hips, and he knew that she was excited by their game.

He wanted to mark her skin and see her bruise, all because of him. It was something that Harleen wanted too, no protest dripping from her lips, as he spanked her. It was more than he thought would come from her, as he remembered the times that Joker had made her cry, yanking at her hair and fucking her as he liked.

The sight had always sickened Roman, Canary herself knowing how Roman lashed out after the infamous pair left. Harley was his, even then.

“Three!” she squealed, and he adored the desire bleeding into her tone. He knew this was what she wanted, and what she deserved. Whatever she wanted, he could give to her, if only she would let him have her in turn.

And if she didn’t, well -

Her consent didn’t matter very much, did it? She was just a little girl, one wanted dead by half the city, while the other half wanted to fuck her and _then_ off her. He understood well enough, as he wanted either of them at times.

Roman smiled lazily, as he traced his name on her skin, with the slick that pooled from her cunt. “Good kitty,” he purred, “keeping your claws away from my face.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Grammarly! 🦝🖤


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a lil chapter about something that's been bothering me since I saw Birds of Prey - why do you think that the Joker and Harley broke up? (Besides Robbie's clear disdain for the pairing ...👀❤). 
> 
> I have my own thoughts/theories about it, but I'd love to know what other people think!
> 
> Thank you for reading, and all the wonderful comments. ❤

Ever since Roman was a child, he had an adoration for information. It was a hard sweet that he could suck between his teeth, his tongue lapping at it, and his lips puckering from how sickly sweet it was. He could store it in his cheek for later, or spit it into his hand, and tuck it into his pocket, knowing it wouldn’t melt there.

He knew things that would never be filtered to the press; Wayne’s penchant for latex outfits, Dr. Pamela Isley’s tenderness for plants, to the extent that she had grown children in her gardens, and the corruption that rankled throughout the Commissioner’s office.

He knew that Mr. Freeze refused to believe in global warming and that Penguin wore supports in his dress shoes to make him appear taller. There was nonsense and fact to everything that Roman knew; things that he kept close to his chest until it suited him to share it. 

"Harleen," Roman purred, his fingertips skimming against her bare skin. The ties to her bikini were precariously thin and crisscrossed against her back. She wore matching bottoms, the scanty, mint green material showcasing her rosy cheeks.

“Mhm?” she mumbled, turning her head toward him.

The valium he’d given her was taking effect as she stretched her arms above her head, and snuggled deeper into her towel. His hand stroked upward, pausing to knead her taut muscles as he went, before resting his fingers on her nape. Her hair hung in loose curls, damp from the swim they’d just had.

His designer hadn’t blinked at his orders to design a pool atop his penthouse, one that would allow the sunlight in, yet was entirely private. Roman frowned at the thought that his designer was getting used to his design plans - it was his joy to take the stout man by surprise.

“Romie?” Harley asked, her eyes glazed as she met his gaze.

She wouldn’t have believed him, had he told her that he’d only given her one Valium, and nothing else with it. Of course, his Valium was made personally for him, the strength far more than one he could have ever gotten prescribed to him. There were creams and vitamins, and syringes filled with any kind of medicine that he could want, and he kept them in his own little pharmacy.

“Such a sweet kitty,” Roman teased, knowing that her claws were sheathed. She could do little as he leaned from his chaise beside hers, and pulled her into his arms. She was lithe and small as he held her, moving to lean back against the lounge, and settled her on top of him. “It’s delightful when you’re like this, quiet and obedient.”

He tipped his head downward and brushed his lips against hers. He tasted the cherry chapstick that she wore and moved to trace her lips with his tongue. She wouldn't bite him when she was like this.

No, Roman thought, curling one arm around her waist, and the other around her shoulder. She wouldn’t bite him at all, though he knew well enough how she hated to be constricted. She was more conflicted than Canary ever was; as Roman recognized Harleen’s desire to serve, just as she wanted to be adored, and free to live as she liked. She wanted to be the servant and the master, she wanted to be loved.

_Loved_.

Where others would feel incredulous, Roman recognized it perfectly enough. He had done the same as a child, when he was held on his father's knee, and accepted as his heir. He wanted to exceed his father's expectations, the same as he had wanted to live his own life, as aimless as it was. He hadn't had a vision then, unable to move past his father's shadow. Things had been different then, Roman showing little of the man that he was to become.

Oh yes, he knew his kitten well.

He rested his temple against hers, their kiss deepening as she invited him in. Languidly, their tongues dangled, and he tasted more of her than before. She was as sweet as the facts and figures that he knew, for she truly _wanted_ him, though she wouldn’t put her desire into words.

At least, not ones that one could find in the dictionary. No, Harleen whimpered and keened, often thrashing beneath him when he took her while moaning for more. It was when she wrapped her legs around his back and urged him further into her that he knew that she wanted everything from him and the new life that he had given her.

And she should be thankful that he had taken her off the streets - literally - when the Crown Prince had gotten rid of her as if she were a puppy bound in a taped-up garbage bag. Roman could see why, when she snapped and snarled, and sank her teeth into his wrist.

He had scars from her still, her nails raking over his back, causing rivets of crimson to run free. She could be wild and terrible, just as she could be quiet and purring. He had no plans of letting her go, as he tended to her, and watched her grow. She took well to the melody of pills that he gave her; many of them the same that he himself took, and reviewed.

He knew everything that went into his body and excelled at knowing what it needed. Where others would see their body as their own, Roman had coaxed and melded his into being more than a body; but a weapon, the same as when he had prowled through the streets and adopted the persona of Black Mask. No one had feared him then when he was beyond the influence of his father and was unproven among the filthy masses.

That had soon changed, as Roman embraced who he was supposed to be.

He wanted her healthy and fit, often flying into a rage when he found chips scattered across the carpet, and when she had tucked a box of pop-tarts beside his boxes of quinoa. She was ungrateful, he’d snarled at her, of everything that he was doing for her, what he was making her into -

She had laughed in his face, until he cuffed her cheek, and dragged her into his bedroom. He knew that she reveled in times when he lost control and used her as if she were nothing but his _toy_ -

His silk and diamond clad _whore_.

She often wore one of his dress shirts after, her otherwise lack of clothing exposing her bruised skin. He often rubbed cream in her skin after, to prevent scars, and applied ice to her face where he had hit her. She would often look away from him while he tended to her, her cheeks flaming pink as if she wanted to shy away from him.

_Liar_.

It was a demure act, one that they both knew made him hard for her.

She played games better than Victor ever had, often driving him around the bend, and flipping the tables on him. There were little rules that she followed, though Roman was quick to realize that she had a weakness for animals and children. It amused him, knowing that even Harleen had a hidden softness in her heart.

He wanted to manipulate and abuse it, stretching her heart open until it snapped between his hands. He wanted to be the only one who would fill it; the only one who would own her beating heart.

“I adore you,” Roman said, his lips curling upward. “So pliant and kind, my kitten.”

She rolled her eyes at him and squeaked when he nipped at her cheek.

"Be a good girl," he scolded her while rocking his hips against hers. He knew that she felt his erection pressing against her hip, as she huffed, and parted her legs for him. He felt that she was wet again, his previous release dripping from her still. 

He had already fucked her twice in the pool, making her hold on to his shoulders the first time after she'd confessed that she couldn't swim. The second time he'd had her lay back against the stairs, before hiking her legs over his shoulders, and buried his face against her dripping cunt. He was greedy for her musky taste, relishing how tangy it was on his tongue.

And when she went down on him -

Fuck, Roman loved how filthy she could be. She sucked him off better than anyone ever had, licking at the underside of his cock, and taking his cock deep into her throat. She would hold his release in her mouth if he wanted, one night holding it until the morning when he allowed her to swallow.

Then there were other times when she took him by surprise; waking him up with her lips on his cock, and her tongue lapping at him as it was a delicious sucker. He’d tangle his hands in her hair, and roll his hips against her face; chuckling when she choked on his cock. He would draw her upward to his chest, after he came, and kiss her face and her lips until she made him hard again.

Then she would ride him, with his hands resting on her hips. She would ride him as if she were free, and being with him was her favorite choice. There was nothing between them when he fucked her, no secrets or words that would drip from their lips, and paint their skin.

There was only her, only him -

And then Roman asked the question that had been on the tip of his tongue, for months.

“Why did the Joker leave you, kitten?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Grammarly! 🦝🖤


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a little bit from Birds of Prey, a little bit from the wiki, and a little bit from my imagination to make Canary's backstory. 🤍
> 
> This chapter came out of nowhere, but I'm not complaining -
> 
> I loved Canary and Harley's interaction in the movie, though it could have been explored more (!!) Nor do I ship Canary with Roman - I really only ship Roman with Harley, though I think Harley fascinates Black Canary a lot. (Does anyone else think so?)
> 
> Thank you for reading! 🖤

As far as jobs went, it wasn’t the worst that Black Canary had ever had.

She bore scars on her shoulders, and the backs of her thighs still, from when she had been a child stealing from everyone in Gotham. It didn't matter if it was an aging businessman or a woman with a baby in a stroller, as she stole the watches from their wrist and wallets from their designer handbags.

She excelled in blending in with crowds and made the shadows her home. She was comfortable with filthy alleyways and losing loss prevention guards, not that Gotham had many. It had always been a city where everyone knew to look the other way, too busy with their own messes to help someone else. It was safer that way too when everyone was tangled up in something, or someone, that they shouldn't have been.

Her piece of shit Uncle expected nothing less from her, as he added everything that she stole to his pawn store’s inventory. Inevitably the victim would come - slinking, blustering, or crying - to his shop counter, and buy what they lost, back.

When she didn’t steal enough for her Uncle to fill his inventory, he’d beat her with his belt, though he never touched her face. It was fortunate, Canary thought, that she’d reminded him of her mother, at least with her facial features. Without them, her face would have been as marred as her shoulders, or her legs were.

“Fuck him,” she said, her teeth sinking into her plump bottom lip.

That had been her first job, “working” for her Uncle, and she’d hated every moment of it. She had always been small and lithe on her feet, with her mother’s eyes that drew people in, before they ever heard her voice. She often slipped away from her Uncle and would go sing at nearby clubs, paid with greasy food, cartons of cigarettes, or whatever change people had. One of Roman Sionis’s goons had heard her singing in a crowded, filthy karaoke bar and had thought he would have an interest in her.

And Roman had when she was tied to a leather chair and made to sing to him in his office. She’d known who he was, just as every person who lived in the slums knew his family, as they owned every decrepit apartment building, and falling down house.

She remembered how loud her heart had been, and the way her teeth had sunk into her tongue until blood had filled her mouth. He would have killed her in a second if she hadn't done as he'd asked.

“ _Sing for me_ ,” he’d said, as politely as if he were a nice man, a safe man. (He wasn’t.) “ _Please_.”

He'd smiled as she sang, his pearly whites exposed. It was the same look that her Uncle had when she brought him a diamond ring or the time she'd found the Commissioner's cell phone. 

He wanted her talent.

When Canary had finished, Roman had gripped her chin with his gloved hand and chuckled. " _You’ll do wonderfully_ ,” he’d said, his voice as warm as ice cubes sliding down her bare skin. She knew he had a temper when she cringed in his hold, and his smile tightened. “ _You’ll be my little bird, won’t you_?”

And she had been, Canary knew.

Working for Roman was better than working for her Uncle, though they were the same as each other.

She sang how Roman wanted and kept her wings tucked in, as he demanded. She practiced with the only maestro in Gotham, until Romans’ audiences wept at her songs, or drew closer to the stage, when she radiated sex appeal, with her voice alone. She was better than anyone on the radio, just the way that Roman preferred it.

“ _What a star you are_ ,” Roman had crooned to her, after one of her first sets. “ _I’m glad that you’re here with us, little bird_.”

It wasn’t long before people were drawn to Roman’ club because of her name alone -

_Black Canary_.

Dinah Lance, or Laurel as her mother had called her, was buried beneath pulsing tendons and aching bones, inside her. Everyone knew that to survive in Gotham, you needed someone to _own_ you, someone to _protect_ you, as other, smaller sharks circled around you. She wouldn’t have made it a minute on her own, not with the circles she had fallen into.

And Roman understood it well.

He had a coterie of talent, the entertainment and security his club offered like no other place in Gotham. Every talent member had an apartment of their own, one that came rent-free, alongside a small allowance to spend as they wished. Canary never had to worry about her next meal, or whether her car would get broken into, or if she'd end up dead on the streets. Roman protected what was his, something she told herself often (and believed, no matter how much the thought made her cringe).

So why did she care, about the _kitten_ in his penthouse upstairs?

Canary grimaced as she heard trickles of familiar laughter from Roman's office. It didn't take a Ph.D. to know what Roman did to Harley, not when they came out with his arm slung around her waist, and hickeys covering her neck. Canary never missed Harley's blown-out pupils either, or the way that she would sit, nearly comatose, afterward at Roman's own table.

He kept Harley on a much shorter leash than the Joker ever had, Canary thought. She remembered when she’d been working for Roman, and first heard the rumors, from two stagehands - “ _Joker’s got himself a girl_.”

“ _Nah, that’s_ _bullshit_. _Have you seen him_?”

“ _I didn’t think the freak could get it up_ ,” his companion agreed, “ _Seems like he can though unless she's just his cunt that he covers in diamonds, and keeps on display_.”

Canary had kept an eye on the news after that, noticing how the Joker's crimes became far more concentrated and sadistic in tone. When the expose had come two years later, about the revolution of Harleen Quinzel, Canary had saved the news special, if only to remember her mother's favorite saying: " _Behind every man, there's a great woman_.”

Or, in this case, a masochistic and lost one.

Canary didn't like Harleen Quinzel, or Harley Quinn, as she was known as. She had janky eye makeup and seemed to revel in being a slave to the Joker. It was like he was everything to her, even with the bruises that covered her skin, and how all of Gotham knew they’d broken up, more times than anyone could count.

It was always the Joker that broke up with her, never the way around.

Harleen Quinzel had allowed herself to become everything that the Joker wanted until Canary wondered if the woman saw anything in the mirror that was truly herself. (Did she actually like the garish J that she'd worn about her neck?). It made Canary feel exasperation, irritation, and pity all at once; a ball of emotions that sank into her stomach, and refused to dissipate.

It only thickened when Canary became Roman's driver and saw them in the backseat together. Roman never could keep his hands off his kitten, as he called her, touching her without gloves even -

Something he had never done; with the lovers he’d had before.

‘He isn’t like your clown,’ Canary wanted to tell her. ‘Roman isn’t going to let you go, even if he stops fucking you.’

No one ever left Roman, except in a body bag. True, it sounded dramatic, but Canary had seen it herself, over the years. She’d worked for Roman just over eight years, and her initial impression of him had been right; violence crept just beneath the surface, dark and bubbling.

He had countless triggers, more than even she could predict. And Roman would do anything when he erupted, no matter who had caused his frayed temper. There had been times when Canary had fled to the bathroom afterward and hid in one of the stalls while the persons' screams had rattled in her ears. 

She couldn’t forget Roman was dangerous.

No one could.

“What are you doing, harlequin?” Canary murmured, before tossing back a shot. She relished the burn, if only for the reminder that she felt things still. “You would have had a better chance with the Joker.”

Her voice was softer than a whisper, though no one was near.

She knew how dangerous honest thoughts were.

' _Why did they break up, do you think, little bird_?' Roman had asked her, Canary knowing who he referred to. It was something she'd thought of privately when she lay in her bed and listened to the neighbors above her argue. 

" _Because she wanted more_ ," Canary had wanted to say. " _She wanted the Joker to give her himself, the same as she gave herself to him_."

It was something that neither the Clown Prince or Roman would ever give Harley Quinn. (Or Harleen Quinzel). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Grammarly! 🦝🖤


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finding my happy place by writing Joker x Harley 😘❤
> 
> I wanted to show a glimpse into the relationship that Harley had with the Joker, before finding Roman...(or Roman found her, to be more accurate.) I'm going off Suicide Squad more than the DC comics/classic Batman show for the dynamic between Harley and the Joker. There's playfulness there, with an unhealthy edge underneath. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I would love to hear from you. :) Please stay safe, everyone. ❤

“Mister J, Mister J,” Harley pouted, “Won’t you play with me?”

Her Clown Prince was a nice man when he wanted to be. (Truly.)

Harley positively _purred_ when he wrapped his hand around her throat and held her still while teasing her with one of his toys. The Joker always liked to use toys; whether it was the handle of his favorite pocketknife, one of the neon, rabbit vibrators that she adored, or something that would tease her senses.

He knew how she would whimper when he pressed an ice cube between her wet folds, and how she would thrash when he pressed his warm mouth against her cunt after. His mouth was like nothing else, as he lapped at her cunt and drew her sensitive hood into his mouth. “Mister J,” she’d whimper, feeling how he smiled against her skin.

He could have been the sweetest lover, if not for the press of his teeth against her skin, and the way that he would hold her thighs apart in a grip that left fingermarks for days afterward. “There, fucking there,” Harley would cry, bucking her hips against his hold. She always wanted to wrap her legs around his shoulder, and press his face closer to her cunt.

She wanted everything that he had to give, the same as she’d given her body and her soul to him. She’d been Harleen Quinzel, one of the brightest students that Gotham had ever seen. (Not like sleeping with her teacher during university had anything to do with it.) She’d thrown herself into her work at Arkham Asylum, and had trembled with excitement every morning she walked in through the front doors.

Who was she going to see? What was she going to do?

Everything was exciting and new.

And when she’d met Mister J -

Well, he was unlike anyone that she’d ever met.

Harley giggled as she felt his hand caress her foot, and he pressed his painted lips against her insole. She wondered if his makeup would stain her skin, part of her hoping that it would. He had already embedded himself inside her, his fingers wrapped about her heart.

She’d never been a silly girl, not like the other girls that she’d known. Her girlfriends had signed her yearbook instead of a crush, and she’d never looked twice at boys that took notice of her after her body had developed. She knew just how awful boys could be, after cleaning up her dad’s vomit every night, while sidestepping his fists and ignoring his raised voice.

Everything had changed when she met Mister J, the same as if she’d been hit in the head with a shovel, and woken up with her mind all jumbled (And Harley knew how that felt after she'd run into one of the Penguin's henchmen in a cemetery.) 

_Harleen_ had taken an interest in her makeup then and dabbed perfume behind her wrists and her ears when she knew that she would be alone with the Clown Prince. _Harleen_ had giggled at the Clown Prince’s jokes, even when she knew that he had moved his chair closer to hers, and his hand had brushed against her arm. _Harleen_ knew that she should have asked to be taken off the Clown Prince’s case, and reported him for inappropriate conduct.

_Harleen_ had fallen in love.

Harley sighed, leaning back on the desk as her man drew both her feet into his lap. “Are we playing a game now, daddy?” she asked, her tone sugary sweet as he kissed her toes, one by one. They often invented games to play, though both of them cheated terribly. (Harley wondered if anyone would believe that she cheated more than the Joker ever did.)

She wore nothing but a sweet nightgown, one that made her look like a little doll, aside from the dark outline of her panties. They had a little bow on them, one that she loved for how dainty it was. The Joker had taken them off with his teeth more than once, often pulling them down her legs, and past her feet where he would tuck them into his pocket for later. Or shove them into her mouth, keeping her quiet when others were around. (He never liked to share, and neither did she.) She was his and no one else’s, including herself.

Somehow, she knew that Ivy wouldn’t approve of that fact.

“We are, little one,” the Joker replied, his lips curling upward. It was a menacing smirk, one that made his henchman shiver, and Harley laugh. She wasn't afraid of him, not even when he pressed a blade to her throat and said that he could find a hundred other girls exactly like her.

“ _You’re a liar, daddy_ ,” Harley had chanted, and he’d laughed after he’d carved his name into her shoulder. She hadn’t even flinched while he did it, though she had screeched when he wouldn’t let her mark him in turn.

He was beautiful to her, and she wanted something of hers on him.

Something _permanent_.

“Will I like this game?” Harley asked, batting her eyelashes.

They both knew that she would, as she loved every game that they played.

“Don’t you trust your daddy?” the Joker asked, peppering kisses over her shins, and up to her knees. He knew every scar that she had, and the story behind them, like the jagged line on the back of her knee. She’d gotten it while climbing the tree next to her bedroom window, she’d told him, while he pretended not to listen.

He did that often with her, listening to every nonsensical thought and story that she had. (Wasn’t it funny, the Joker thought, that it had been reverse while she was his psychiatrist?)

“I do,” Harley replied, nodding her head so fast that her pigtails whipped against her cheeks. Her role as his baby girl was one of her favorite, both of them sharing the same taste for roleplay. “I do daddy, I really, _really_ do.”

He laughed at that, knowing what she wanted from him.

His mouth went higher and higher as he kissed her skin, his tongue darting out to taste her in places, while he nibbled on others. She squirmed beneath him and pressed her hands against the desk. “Oh -“ Harley mewed, his breath warm against her cunt, through her lacy underwear. “There daddy, please…”

His hands moved to spread her legs apart, his fingernails digging into her skin.

Harley didn’t mind, she never did. (She only sulked when Mister J ignored her, something she would do anything to avoid. She reveled in being his little girl, his kitten clad in diamonds and silk while having claws to tear everything apart, and didn’t want to let go of that. She _wouldn’t_ let go of that.)

“You’re my good girl,” the Joker purred, pressing a chaste kiss against her slit. Slick gushed afterward, a sweet nectar that he wanted to gather with his fingers and make her lick. “My wonderful girl…”

She held her breath, waiting to feel his mouth on her. “Daddy,” Harley started, whining his name just the way that he liked -

Until the Joker pinched her clit, and she jerked in surprise. “D-Daddy -“

“Daddy is busy today,” the Joker chided, kissing her folds that he’d pinched. “You knew that sweetheart, and wanted to distract me. Naughty -“

“Sorry daddy,” Harley murmured, not meaning a word of it. Heat filled her insides, a warmth that she never wanted to let go of. She was always cold when she was away from her lover, as cold as she’d been as a child and her father had left her on her own for weeks. 

“Go to your room,” the Joker said, his tone harsh. “Kneel on the bed, and keep your head down, kitten, and _don’t_ fucking touch yourself. You’ve been very naughty, trying to distract me -“

She swallowed, loud enough for him to hear.

“Will you come to me, daddy? When you’re done?”

The Joker smiled, his teeth gleaming in the dimly lit room. (Harley never had to fear for a monster under the bed, when one was in bed beside her.) “You know how your punishment works, Harley.”

She sniffled - loudly - before slipping off the desk, and skipped to the stairs.

The Joker chuckled as he heard her take them two at a time. He would join her when he was done, as would the paddle that he kept in his drawer. His kitten needed to learn a lesson, one that she wouldn’t forget when it came to distracting him while he worked…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Grammarly! 🦝🖤


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too many ( ) and - but I'm crawling out of my corona virus-ridden rock to post this. 😩❤ I hope that anyone reading this is safe, and your friends/family too!! 
> 
> My dad is out of the ICU now, and back at home. He had a 20% chance of surviving corona virus/double pneumonia, and is very weak, bu so grateful to be home! I'm positive for covid, and just finished a round of antibiotics for a nasty infection, but covid is hitting me harddd. 
> 
> It's up in the air if I can finish my semester (I have a week and a half to go, but haven't been able to get any work done, feeling like this) or if I'm going back to the hospital. Covid is nothing to take lightly, please follow social distancing, washing your hands, etc!! 
> 
> And thank you all again for the sweet, sweet messages on Tumblr/Discord, and the prayers/well wishes for my family. It means the world to me, thank you! ❤

Mister J -

No, Harley thought. He wasn't her Mister J anymore, was he?

The Joker, she corrected herself, had always been intense ever since he propped his elbows on the table between them and held his chin in his hand, the same as a sculpture she’d seen in a book one time. " _Should I tell you my story, Doctor Quinzel, or will you tell it for me?_ " he'd heard every line before if his files were anything to go by. 

(She didn't shiver at the way he said her name, and hear him say it again.)

(She _didn't_.)

He'd heard her fumbling with his file in the hallway before she'd ever stepped into the visitor room. They sat in chairs that were too heavy to lift, and a rounded table ensured there were four feet between them, as they sat across from one another. Harley never brought anything with her, aside from the requirements: her badge and a clipboard filled with forms, ones that she always waited until their session was finished to fill out.

She wanted the Joker, and all of her patients to feel at ease with her. Some, like Killer Croc, sneered at her for ' _attempting to be some kind of fucking homemake_ r', while others, like Mr. Freeze, observed her without comment. She knew that every patient wanted to know how she would turn out, some taking bets on whether she’d throw herself from a window at the asylum, or run screaming out the front doors. Few listed in Arkham, patient and doctor alike.

She refused to back down, determined to feel more than a child pretending to be a doctor. ' _I went to med school_ ,’ she’d remind herself, ‘ _There’s a diploma on my office wall, and boxes filled with my old textbooks if anyone disagrees_.’

Only the Joker wasn't allowed to come to her office, not after he'd stapled the last psychiatrist to their office chair, and stabbed their ballpoint pen through their neck. The guards had found him like that seventy minutes after the Joker’s session was supposed to end, and the psychiatrist was stiff and cold by then.

" _He wouldn't stop clicking the end of it_ ," the Joker told her later. " _I knew that you were right for me when I saw the pencil tucked behind your ear_."

It was a habit of hers ever since grade school, one that stayed with her through college.

And afterward, Harley thought ruefully, knowing full well that she'd switched to ballpoint pens only after her breakup with the clown prince.

(Now she woke up to ink across her cheeks instead of a leaded pencil end poking her ear. Now she was singlehandedly keeping the pen business alive in Gotham because of how many she purchased, having burned all the pencils that she owned before.)

" _These sessions are about you, Arthur_ ," she'd told him. His lips had curled into a crooked smile as if he'd heard every word before. Judging by the length of his file, one that she’d read over and over again, she guessed that he definitely had.

" _Are they?_ "

They'd watched each other; the Joker like a cat with a mouse dangling between its paws, while she resisted the urge to bite her lip, and squirm. She'd looked away first, and stilled when he'd whispered, " _Good girl_."

His smile had only broadened when he heard her sharp inhale.

Slowly, Harley dragged the small brush over her fingernail, watching as it became coated in red. She never left her nails naked, not anymore. She knew that Roman approved, the same as the Joker had, loving the sight of her small hand wrapped around their cock. She was a painted doll, a pleasing harlequin.

She knew now that the Joker had her pegged the moment, she walked through Arkham's front doors.

And how could he not, when she was the youngest psychiatrist the asylum had ever hired, and the only doctor that actually wanted to work with the people Gotham itself wanted to forget? She'd had stars in her eyes and a mountain of true crime paperbacks shoved in her closet and under her bed, every book repeatedly read. The Joker had seen right through her craving for attention, and the daddy issues, and her heady fear of abandonment. He told her that she could be the very, very best if she was with him -

" _You'll be the best harlequin I've ever had_ ," he'd cooed when she sat in his lap and played with his hair. It was softer than anyone would ever believe, and she'd giggled when he pretended to purr because of her petting him as if he were a big old tomcat. “ _Papa never let me have a cat_ ," she'd told him, and he'd promised her that she could have all the cats that she wanted if she was his girl.

“ _And I’ll be your favorite_ _one_ ,” he promised, and she’d believed him.

Why wouldn't she? She felt excitement in her veins as if everything in her knew that he could give her what she was missing. She didn't feel alone when she left work and returned to her ratty apartment where the dog upstairs barked through the night, and a young couple screamed at each other down the hall. She found herself humming while she browsed through magazines before bed, even saving some of the recipes, as if she were capable of more than burning toast, and heating up a can of ravioli. She looked forward to the days she had sessions with the Joker -

“ _Arthur_ ,” she said, his name sweet on her tongue. He was Arthur Fleck, and the Joker, both of the men hers, the same as she was his. (Her toes crossed in her slippers at the thought.)

He'd kissed her - with tongue - during her next visit when she surprised him with a beanie baby cat. " _It reminded me of you_ ," she confessed, and his smile had lit up the room.

Harley cringed at the memory, and what a fucking sap that she'd been. She’d been more excited than when Cody Thompson taped a note to her locker, asking to meet under the bleachers, where they’d made out until the football coach caught them. She’d never felt more alive during her time with the Joker, whether they were inside the asylum or out of it. He showed her a life that she would have never known before, even if it was a lie.

She bit her lip at that, her teeth sinking into her painted flesh.

She was way worse than Ivy with her plant babies, or Catwoman and the photo of Bruce Wayne (err...Batman...) that Harley knew for a fact, she kept on her nightstand, alongside things she’d stolen from him.

She wished she had copied her feline friend after she'd been pleasantly buzzed and watched videos online about making a voodoo doll. She didn't have a strand of the Joker's obnoxiously green hair or a tie of his, but she’d made a doll anyway, and stabbed its eyes repeatedly with a needle. (It hadn't worked, not when he pulled off a heist a week later and had his full sight. She’d stabbed it fifty more times after she realized he’d used one of her plans to pull off the heist. Jerk.) 

No matter how many shots she had, the stupid kitty and the words she said wouldn't go away. Not even when Black Canary would drag her up the stairs, or she vomited into her fake coach purse, before sleeping in the VIP booth, if Roman wasn’t around. He never liked her little 'tantrums' that she threw as if he knew they had little to do with him.

But nothing about the Joker went away, Harley admitted. Every moment she'd spent with him had clawed its way inside her and refused to unfurl from there. Which, if the people that hated her for being the Joker's girl were anything to go by, was the norm.

No one forgot the Joker, no one let him go. He was the one that broke up with her, kicked her from their house during an opioid fuelled party, and had the locks changed after, leaving her with a useless set of keys. (Lie. She'd thrown her keys at the Joker when he told her to go.)

Harley was pretty sure that the bars on the windows were new, as well as the bodyguards that were posted at the door. As if she would do anything. Much.

(So, crashing a semi-truck into the chemical factory - the same one where the Joker had pushed her into a vat, effectively killing Harleen - had caused a few fireworks. It hadn’t hurt anyone, yeah? Harley refused to regret that one as if heartbreak hadn't made people do 'crazy' things before. Just listen to any country song!)

Harley blew a stray curl off her face while keeping her hands still. Her nails were drying, and she liked how the red color was the same as her lipstick. She’d worn the bold lip ever since university, after swiping it from her literature professor. She’d never liked the woman, not after she gave her a D- on her midterm, and frowned at the length of Harleen’s skirts. Her lipstick was the only thing that Harley, well, Harleen liked, and she’d taken it from her.

It was the same as the Joker, Harley acknowledged. He always took what he wanted, without thought.

Only -

Harley tapped her foot against the plush carpet, the silence unnerving her. She didn't want to think about the Joker after she'd promised her reflection that she wouldn't.

“He’s not worth it,” she said, knowing that she was alone in the penthouse. Roman was away on a little business ‘trip’ and would be back the next day, though Harley knew how he liked to surprise her, especially after the last time he’d left and come home to her laying in his closet, with his suits pulled off their hangers and surrounding her like a little nest. She’d had cocaine smeared across her cheeks, and down her chest, and he’d thrown an absolute fit. The bruises he gave her were worth the bender she’d had, and he’d taken care of her for days after, while she came off of it.

It was a treat to hear the Joker in her ear, snarling when Roman pulled her legs over his shoulders and ate her out in the clawfoot tub, and she'd sent water sloshing over the sides as she panted and writhed. Nor had the Joker been pleased when Roman carried her to bed after and taken her while she was on all fours, and he pulled her hair just the way that she liked. Roman hadn't seen the feral smile on her lips, or the way that she clutched the sheets between her fisted hands, and she heard the Joker whisper that he was going to kill her -

Kill, kill, kill for allowing another man to touch her. Fuck her. Own her.

“ _You’re mine, Harley_ ,” the Joker, _her_ Joker, hissed -

And Harley nearly cried at how perfect it was, the words sweeter than any chocolate truffle she gorged herself on when one of Roman’s ex-lovers sent them to him. It was sweet and bitter all at once, flavors that danced on her tongue. She wanted more and more of it, never wanting to let it go. Nor did she want _him_ to let go, even if she knew, deep down, that he’d never held on as tightly as she had.

She wanted to believe that he had seen the potential in her to be right for him, and for the world that he lived in. She wanted to believe that she was enough for him, in ways that she had never been enough for anyone else. Her father. Her mother. Her few friends during school, and the professor that she’d slept with during university. The child that she’d nearly had, for a few moments while she sat in a sterile, free planned parenthood room.

Roman would never understand how the Joker crept beneath someone's skin and stayed there because he made them feel as if _they_ invited him in. They were the ones to want him, to crave what he could give them, and beg for everything that he withheld from them. They were the ones who sold themselves away, without the Joker ever asking them to.

The Joker never forced them.

She would have to cut him out of her with her own hands if she wanted him to leave, and the very thought made her wrap her arms tight around herself. She always felt anxious when her thoughts tilted and spun that way as if she were on a roller coaster without a stop button. It was an endless loop, one that made her do things that ended with her hands cuffed to the bed, and someone looming above her.

Or - worse - she ended up alone, without even a hyena for company. Roman would carry her like a child after her episodes, tucking her into bed beside him, or in his lap, while he thumbed through paperwork, and made business calls. She’d nuzzle her face against his shoulder, and inhale wisps of his spicy cologne, so unlike the crisp, metallic smell of her lover before.

What was Roman to her? She never wanted to answer the question, not even in her own thoughts, as if answering it would dislodge Arthur from her. Her heart stuttered, and she shook her head, her pigtails hitting her cheeks.

_No_ -

She would keep him there, inside her. She wouldn’t let him go, and no one had to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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